DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
A reunion; steel singing against steel, lacquered, varnished metal swinging into another. The blast, beats, of war echoing, drumming, in his ears. The crescendo of might bombarding into strength and regard, into flesh and bone. He’d had it all along and not at the same time – portions quartered off in his Warden duties that were no longer. The mantle lifted, the crown handed back, the fortress of his making returned in present distinction, in the sweep and slide of his blade against a guard’s, in the quaking laughter resounding through stone marks, in the columns of survival. For one, small, infinitesimal moment, the world was calm and bright and comforting.
There were perennial, rapier vows, but still there nonetheless, until the next crisis towered along the horizon. These were breaths, small but impactful, clear and distinct, a balm to the soul. These were minute but influential; tides in which they were allowed to surface. To swim, rather than drown. To live, rather than succumb and perish.
Another swing of his sword and the triumph bounded, leapt, in rounds of laughter and fallen guards. Hands offered, forms picked up off the stone floor, and weapons tucked back away onto belts, while they shifted or adjourned, while the ranks took file and remembered what it was like to not be locked away. Warrior armaments flickered in the promise of future drinks at the bar, and the beast shook his head; other times, other days, and his movements, beneath furs and leather and armor, eluded to placing effigies and targets away.
Then there was a turning of heads, a shifting of brows, and he followed the change in the guards’ movements, a glance over his shoulder to a hooded figure rampaging towards him, a reach –
And he knew those hands. The small stature, not to be overcome, not to be outdone. The golden hair. The hood falling back. Lives interrupted and brazen and gone. Deimos might have laughed again, shook his head, if given enough time, enough moments to stare and realize and understand. Instead, he was merely open arms, an instinctive turn towards Valkyries and friends, allies in each and every storm, no matter how far apart.
There was no collision. He picked her up, easily fitting her into the muscles and brawn, into the crooks of shoulders, into the pull of hearts and souls. “Ru,” he grumbled, rumbled, the single syllable a skirmish in his chest. No questions asked. No explanations needed. Not now.
There were perennial, rapier vows, but still there nonetheless, until the next crisis towered along the horizon. These were breaths, small but impactful, clear and distinct, a balm to the soul. These were minute but influential; tides in which they were allowed to surface. To swim, rather than drown. To live, rather than succumb and perish.
Another swing of his sword and the triumph bounded, leapt, in rounds of laughter and fallen guards. Hands offered, forms picked up off the stone floor, and weapons tucked back away onto belts, while they shifted or adjourned, while the ranks took file and remembered what it was like to not be locked away. Warrior armaments flickered in the promise of future drinks at the bar, and the beast shook his head; other times, other days, and his movements, beneath furs and leather and armor, eluded to placing effigies and targets away.
Then there was a turning of heads, a shifting of brows, and he followed the change in the guards’ movements, a glance over his shoulder to a hooded figure rampaging towards him, a reach –
And he knew those hands. The small stature, not to be overcome, not to be outdone. The golden hair. The hood falling back. Lives interrupted and brazen and gone. Deimos might have laughed again, shook his head, if given enough time, enough moments to stare and realize and understand. Instead, he was merely open arms, an instinctive turn towards Valkyries and friends, allies in each and every storm, no matter how far apart.
There was no collision. He picked her up, easily fitting her into the muscles and brawn, into the crooks of shoulders, into the pull of hearts and souls. “Ru,” he grumbled, rumbled, the single syllable a skirmish in his chest. No questions asked. No explanations needed. Not now.
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
